Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . d he, as one, might midst the many standUnheeded, searching through the crowd to findFit speculation, such as in strange landHe found in wonder-works of God and Natures hand. wlio can view the ripened rose, nor seekTo wear it? who can curiously beholdThe smoothness and the sheen of beautys feel the heart can never all grow old ? CANTO III. PILGRIMAGE. 117 Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfoldThe star which rises oer her steep, nor climb ?Harold, once more within the vortex, rolledOn with the giddy circle, chasing Time,Yet with a
Childe Harold's pilgrimage, a romaunt . d he, as one, might midst the many standUnheeded, searching through the crowd to findFit speculation, such as in strange landHe found in wonder-works of God and Natures hand. wlio can view the ripened rose, nor seekTo wear it? who can curiously beholdThe smoothness and the sheen of beautys feel the heart can never all grow old ? CANTO III. PILGRIMAGE. 117 Who can contemplate Fame through clouds unfoldThe star which rises oer her steep, nor climb ?Harold, once more within the vortex, rolledOn with the giddy circle, chasing Time,Yet with a nobler aim than in his youths fond prime. XII. But soon he knew himself the most unfitOf men to herd with man ; with whom he heldLittle in common ; untaught to submitHis thoughts to others, though his soul was quelledIn youth by his own thoughts; still uncompelled,He would not yield dominion of his mindTo spirits against whom his own rebelled;Proud though in desolation; which could findA life within itself, to breathe without 118 CHILDE HAROLDS canto hi. rose the mountains, there to him were friends;Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, had the passion and the power to roam;The desert, forest, cavern, breakers unto him companionship; they spakeA mutual language, clearer than the tomeOf his lands tongue, which he would oft forsakeFor Natures pages glassed by sunbeams on the lake. XIV. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars,Till he had peopled them with beings brightAs their own beams; and earth, and earth-born human frailties, were forgotten quite:Could he have kept his spirit to that flightHe had been happy; but this clay will sinkIts spark immortal, envying it the lightTo which it mounts, as if to break the linkThat keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. XV. But in mans dwellings he became a thingRestless and worn, and stern and wearisome,Drooped as a wild-born fa
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